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Since I was an English Lit major in undergrad, I always envisioned myself writing the next great American novel. This lofty aspiration was influenced by two factors:
In the course of ten years, I would set out at least once a year to craft this work of literary genius. Each and every time, I never made it pass the tenth page. I became daunted by the sheer magnitude of the task – the length and the quality. I was daunted by my own expectations.
When I would sit down to write, I would leap at least a year into the future. Thoughts of criticism, not delivering perfect literature, and the potential for failure completely clouded my present mind, which I needed to actually write.
I would look at the few pages I actually managed to write, and dismissed them as a futile attempt by an amateur. Essentially, I would give up before I ever even started.
I think it’s ironic how perfectionism – our desire to be flawless – keeps us from doing so many things. We want to be perfect in what we do, that we end up doing nothing. And if we produce nothing, then there is nothing to perfect.
Perfection is one of the greatest tricks of the mind. We convince ourselves of what is perfect, and then convince ourselves that we cannot live up to it. When I read the works by literary greats, instead of learning from and appreciating them, I would convince myself that I had to measure up to them.
Great expectations will always lead to great disappointment.
Now I just do my best, resolving that I have produced my best work with the knowledge and resources available to me in that moment. Now I just hope that someone reading my work can simply learn from it and appreciate it.